We signed the lease on the Victorian-ish apartment. It was either that or a smoke-saturated house in a neighborhood not quite ghetto (there are a string of widows living one by one down at one of end, which pulls its status up) or a strangely partitioned apartment in Chevy Chase--quite charming, but such an inefficient use of space that we couldn't see how two unmarried people could live there without tripping over each other all the time.

Pope still has a hall for his mad dashing gallops.
I have a reading nook.
Jon has space to cram his bike stuff.